A blog for Contemporary Literary Review India or CLRI. It publishes new announcements, releases, and blurbs meant for CLRI the literary journal hosted on http://literaryjournal.in/. Previously, literary issues were brought out on this blog with own domain. Authors and artists published here can still search their pieces but with http://contemporaryliteraryreview.blogspot.in/.

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Sunday, December 4, 2011

Editor's LineThe Power that Media Reigns
Recently an iconic news maker News Corp was in the news for not a good reason though. The media mogul Rupert Murdoch is accused of being involved in the phone-hacking scandal which brought down the head of the goddess of freedom to expression. Murdoch and Co. are accused of hacking phones of many biggies in the government and outside as well in the United Kingdom and other countries which brought the fact that the media group has become so influential that it had a strong say in government forming that goes beyond reporting the facts of current happenings around the world to the fore.

This initiated a discussion that whether the media houses can reign such an influence in every country. With the fact that some years back Rupert Murdoch of News Corp was trying to buy The Times of India an English daily which has the largest circulation in the world, the fear grows more whether the same media could influence the Indian society in a similar way. Or whether the media in India too can have such a strong say in government forming.

But this does not seem to be possible in India. Western society is singular in many respects, while Indian society is plural and that the traditions and cultures in India are overlapping. An immigrant in the United States starts imitating the lifestyle of Americans and becomes easily identifiable with American society and its culture, Sunny Leone and the like are its examples. Uniformity moulds the society. It is therefore easy to create a world of certain thought, while meeting the demand of the people in the long run. And the thought process switches; the thought of the media becomes the thought of the people.

While in India a new community emerges out very often and starts voicing for its own identity and rights, a sub-community from a community and a sub-culture from a culture, which leads to the shaping of the identity of a new thought, ideology, and requirement. Dozens of castes (read community) came out from four main castes, these dozens of castes further gave birth to many sub-castes. Now there are thousands of castes in India. Typically these castes keep on multiplying and many merge up with others. So if you keep hold on some castes for a period, you may lose control over the same castes as they would have divided themselves into further hundreds or many might have merged and vanished after some time. So it is not possible to keep on meeting the demand of a community for a long period. Therefore it is difficult to dent the Indian society towards a certain idea and hold it for too long because the demand of the people varies over a period of time.

The Western society is largely sliced between overt ideologies, whereas Indian society is an accumulation of various covert ideologies, which is evident in the post coalition system of political society.

No single media house in India can satisfy the need of the entire Indian population, as they do not have a uniform requirement. A media house meeting the requirement of a community may not be as famous among other communities. For example, The Times of India is the single largest selling English daily, its Hindi version Navbharat Times is far behind its counterparts, Dainik Bhaskar and Dainik Jagran on the other hand. This means that the same reporting ideology of English newspaper does not and cannot work for the readers who prefer Hindi as their language. Importantly newspapers and magazines in regional languages meet the requirement of the regions better than those media houses which are national in nature. Away from regional concern means away from the concern of the people, and away from their reach.

Nevertheless we cannot write off the indirect influence of the media, both print and television, on the people. There are many examples when media’s pursuance have proved to be too influential and brought good results. The cases of Jesica Lal, Rathor scandal, Nupur murder and many others might have been settled in a different way but the pursuance of the media ensures justice to a good level. Some years back a boy, named Prince, fell in a well and the media owes the credit to have moved the government to rescue the boy who was brought alive from the well. Otherwise it is difficult to think that the government could have made such efforts to save a child of no power. The movement of Anna Hazare against corruption got a strong momentum only with the support of media which broadcasts all the happenings live round the clock when Anna is on fast unto death.

CLRI Reviews November 2011 ReleasedCLRI Reviews November 2011 issue is out now. This issue includes reviews and new releases.

Send your releases, we will include them in the next issue.

Contemporary Literary Review: India Print Version
Contemporary Literary Review: India (CLRI) is to bring out its most awaited annual print version for the first time in January 2012. Though CLRI has planned to bring out the print, Kindle, Nook and Pothi editions quarterly beginning January 2012, this print edition January 2012 will be the first issue.

The CLRI print version will include selected materials published with CLRI online the last year, 2010. In addition to the already published materials, CLRI print version will include some previously unpublished materials—unique to it—arts, models photographs, and editing suggestions such as how to edit creative writings to improve them, a very new concept for a literary journal.

We seek your best submission for the print version of CLRI, in addition to submission for CLRI online.

Important:
CLRI also wants to publish two photos of two models—one male and second female—in its center stage. The models should be media virgin, the models should not have appeared in any type of media including print journals/magazines, Web site, online portals, blogs or any other public domain till January 2012. The photographs should have exotic background, sensual representation of the models, aesthetic beauty, and arts. But no nude pictures please!

With great pleasure we would like to share that the forthcoming print version of Contemporary Literary Review: India (CLRI) has got its ISSN number, which is ISSN 2250 - 3366. The writers whose works appear in the print version may quote the ISSN number in their publication credits. Please note this ISSN is only for the print version

Inner Pilgrimage: Ten Days to a Mindful Me by Raji Lukkoor is a multidimensional spiritual journey— using Vipassana meditation—a secular tool that Raji thinks can change anyone’s life dramatically, forever. When you immerse yourself in the goose-bump arising, spiritual experiences of Inner Pilgrimage; be sure to keep your senses and sensibilities open, so you can navigate through the unpredictable sensations in your body. The description is so picturesque and captivating that you feel as if you have plunged into Raji’s sea of words and encountered a spiritual experience so deep that it feels like your own experience.

Vibrating and passionate, thrilling and incredible, Inner Pilgrimage is an inspiring tale of ten days of Vipassana mediation that practitioners can use to expel fears, materialistic delusions, frustrations, relationship problems and many more inevitable sufferings of existence—a complete flushing of life’s ills.

Inner Pilgrimage is divided into three sections—Senses, Sensations and Sensibilities—that lay out the author’s journey of eventual self-transformation through attention to the physical sensations.

Vipassana, the quintessence of this book, was rediscovered by Gautam Buddha two-and-a-half centuries ago, and focuses on the relationship between mind and body. It is an observation-based, self-exploratory exposure to the common root of mind and body that dissolves mental impurity, resulting in a balanced mind that is filled with love and compassion.

Initially, Raji seems somewhat skeptical of becoming a hermit for ten days, away from the coziness of her home, but she remains firm. On day one, her spiritual odyssey starts with the pre-requisite teachings of Vipassana, the three jewels of Buddhism: Buddha or acknowledging enlightenment within self: dhamma or living in the present moment, and sangha or refraining from evil. She discovers the milestones of an individual’s spiritual journey including: sila or morality, samadhi or concentration, and panna or wisdom. By day two of practicing anapana or the awareness of the natural breath, the author experiences an “Aha“ moment during which she feels as if she is “moving effortlessly, floating, gliding in the joyous nothingness of a grand immensity that appears to stretch to infinity.”

On day four, she discovers anicca or that the true nature of sensations varies from moment to moment, Sankhara or reactions, and Adhitthana or the determination to remain motionless. Moving forward, she continuously scans her body for sensations, which emerge in the form of pain, numbness, creepy-crawly, pricking, pins-and-needle type sensations, and so on. Sensations arise; “they pass away. They arise; they pass away”--incredible sensations, larger than life!

On day seven, she learns the challenging sweep–en-masse technique, which involves scanning the whole body for sensations in one sweep, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes and then back up. She feels strong sensations across her body in the form of pressure, rippling sensations and pin-pricks. She does not react to any sensations because now she knows that this is the key to maintaining equanimity in the midst of sensations. On the final day, she learns the second half of the Vipassana practice, Metta bhavana and Dana. Metta bhavana invokes the feeling to share the purity and wisdom developed during the ten days with all beings and Dana invokes charity, generosity, or donation.

On the eleventh day, a transformed personality with a renewed vision of life, Raji is eager to go home. Come on readers, let’s jump in and accompany Raji on her journey of self-discovery and attain enlightenment.

You are the cardinal foot print
Among the reminiscences left behind by
The setting eye of mine countenance sky
You are the collective measure of light
Emanated from the beautiful flowery unfinished smiles
Of my past seven births

In this last leg of my life
In the scorching sun soaked desert
You are my umbrella bearer and the guardian angel
Fighting my problems for me
You are my debt chained one man army
Protecting me from the drenching tear filled clouds
You are the whirlwind of soothing smiles
He is the verve of my existence
And you are our élan’s introductory sentence

Whenever the serpent of time does molt
And the seasons gently touch the lips of the floret
When the blessed souls call on their beloved ones
In the roars of inundating oceans
The floating drops of desires on the unstable lotus leaves
Whenever they try to disturb my mind pond

I find solace and his nearness
In your pure placating smiles
And in them I recoup my wilting self- confidence

You are the extension of his life
And the present left by him for my existence
You are my life saver and my life.

Author’s Bio: Perugu Ramakrishna, born in Nellore, is a tax officer by profession but poetry is his first passion. He has been writing poetry in Telugu for the last 25 years and has been widely published in several e-journals including Muse India and other anthologies. His works have been translated into many other languages such as Malayalam, Tamil, Kannada, Bengali and Hindi. He has published nine books of poetry anthologies and has edited two short story anthologies. Recently a collection "Flamingo and other poems" in English is published by Monfakira, Kolkotta.

He has participated in several national and international fests including Sahithya Akademi "New Voices' at Trivandrum, International Poetry Fest of Kritya at CIIL, Mysore, SAARC festival of literature at Delhi and Agra, recently attended World Congress of Poets - 2011 at Larissa, Greece and got Exellency of Poetry Award. He is a recipient of Andhra Pradesh State Government Visista Kavi Puraskaram from CM Dr.YSR-2008 among others.

There was silence everywhere except for the clattering door, left ajar and wind hustling on it. The room had a dingy smell of urine. The shutters were closed and the wind was playing on it. Dust-smeared panes would have reflected the sunbeams from entering the room, but there was no sun and it made it darker. The room was stuffy and had not been aerated for days but that didn’t bother the old woman in her death bed. Every short interval, she coughed her lungs out and her voice echoed empty beyond the walls of her shabby room.

“I hate this moody weather”, she squirmed, peering out through the dark, dust-stained glasses.’ “I’ve lived enough….,” she mumbled to herself. Of pain, of joy or for unknown reasons, she mustered enough irony for a short smile. She piled a hump out of her saliva-stained pillows and sat up; her back to the wall. She groped for her walking staff as her memory flashed back in pieces. A sense of urgency crept into her. She melted down and wept.

She stood on her feet tremulously and fumbled the knob of the door. The door flunked open with another dry creaking noise and fresh air whooshed into the room, flapping among some books and creating waves over the frames on the wall. She saw few familiar faces among those pictures but she had too little memory left for sound judgment. The light beaming in from the door was of little help for her eyes were failing her. For reason no other than age, tears burst down her shriveled cheeks and blurred her vision for worst.

She scooped some water over her face and splattered unintentionally over her grayed hair. She swooped over the wilted creeper and sloshed some water and murmured, “o poor, did I forget you”. She spat on the floor missing the spittoon. Her room was all but a mess.

“Breakfast grandma” a boy came in with a cup of milk and some biscuit on a server. Slamming the door behind him he rushed out into the corridor adjoining the verandah.

“Hey! You, Come back over here” quaked the old woman in her shrunken- short breathe voice. “A stranger in my house! Abomination!” she mumbled ruminatively, sipping over the cup of milk. “Ah! I’ve not tasted milk for a while now. Living on other diet?” she asked herself. Fumbling the handle, she took a sip wishfully. “Good milk. Good fellow. That boy, a lovely child” she thought over, but she had forgotten his look.

The sun had come up by the time she’d had her breakfast. Putting another shirt over the other and flinging a cloak over another, she was bulged as a hen. Dressed heavy as she was, she moved slowly, and with just enough energy in her to slam the door behind. “O’ what a lovely day!” she said, watching the sun from her backyard.

“Boy, Which way is the ravine?” she asked the same boy mistaken for another boy. “Lovely boy” she mumbled again. A wisp of dust trailed along her tramping footsteps. “Lady you got chickens to look after. Feed well”, she walked past, kindly responding with a smile for a smile.

“How do you feel today?” the young lady enquired with great concern.

“I’m fine! But do I happen to know you?” she enquired, with no tint of arrogance in her voice. There was no reply.

The sun had broken the misty veils when she walked up the slanting road. The sun was hot on her. Undressing a shawl from her neck she complained, “I’ve never seen such a hot day.” She would stop occasionally for breath as she climbed up the sloppy trail. “O, God! Isn’t there any concession for my age?” she complained again. Hunching over her stick she strike a quaint figure of an actor hunching over a golden stilts or lamp post; unbalanced and odd in every way. Her socks were of different colors, shoes never cared. She spoke in voice audible to herself but too loud to others. Her opinion on many matters could not be left secret or unknown.

“Lazy hooligans, don’t they have anything to do?” she had said of those young fathers standing on the pavement for some chat. When they stared back at her she would hurry away as if she had not spoken a word. And she would say, “Haven’t you seen an old woman before?” in a more boisterous tone.

The sun was high up when she forged further beyond the last house. The silence was broken by the children’s voices, churning of rice mills, every bucolic activity… and the wind was dashing hard on her insensitive face but she felt so little. She felt as if she had been cocooned in somnambulant dizziness.

Walking over the knee deep grasses she felt something mushy beneath her feet. After few mushy steps she realized that she had abandoned a shoe at her last stop. As she disappeared into the pine groove she further slowed down. With slippery needled leaf strewn everywhere it had became harder for her to balance. The smell of pine was familiar to her. Leaning her weight over a disfigured branch she choked a young sprout- tuft of needled leaves and snuffed over and over. “Old pine… You are a true friend” She said with an old smile.

Few meters from the ravine, she came to a halt. Sitting flat with her leg stretched, she watched the beauty -unfolding in her eye deep down the valley; and old trails of memories came flashing in. She saw the spiraling red-muddy road she had walked thousand times, the oak trails, the mango grooves, the corn field she had sweated all her life and the wild apple tree where she first fell in love with a man she later married. The mountains where she had watched the sun go down every evening. The valley where she had looked after her father’s loitering cows.it all came rushing in like many breath of fresh air.

“O’ where have I been all these years…how could I be…” she wept.

“Martha…my beloved daughter…o…my grandchildren… aw...”

“Grandma it’s time for lunch,” came a boy’s pitchy voice.

She arched back and recognized her grandson, standing right behind her; almost grown out of boyhood.

“How long have I been here,” she asked, reaching out her hand to the boy offering help.

“Long enough… it’s time for lunch,” said the boy.

“It seems like years to me,” she said.

Too many thought came rushing in and clogged her mind and gagged her mouth. She gaped and warm tears ran down her cheeks. She stood to her feet, dried her tears and brushing off those dangling dry leaves, she lifted her eyes to the topmost firmament and only said, Thank you my Lord for the old ravine.

Author’s Bio: Jim Wungramyao Kasom has an MA Mass communication from AJK, MCRC, Jamia is a photographer by profession. He’s passionate about writing and one of his stories has appeared in Reading Hour.

This story explores the ordeal of the daily life of an alzheimer patient, who loses her memory. Jim thinks that it is but memory that makes a man meaningful and worth living.

Jim is a writer and photographer. He writes short fiction, lyrics and screenplays; is passionate about photography, travelling and getting to know places and cultures. Two of his short stories have already appeared in Reading Hour Magazine.

Man vs Woman: A Brief Sexual History
No man is perfect
Yet every man wants women to be perfect
So, their feet used to be bound
Now their faces surgically shaped and reshaped
Their eyelids doubled
Their breasts raised
Their skin ironed and chemically treated
Their subcutaneous fat removed from their bellies or waists
Their legs made longer on high-heeled shoes
Their entire bodies perfumed, clad and decorated with all fashions
As if they were full-sized dolls

Just as god made man in his image
So has man been making women after his likeness

Confession of a Police Officer
Father, I know this is not a proud thing to do
But I really enjoy hiding myself
Somewhere in a dim corner
To catch a poor guy never known to us
Changing lanes without giving a signal
Speeding a couple of kilos over the limit
Attempting a left turn under a yellow light
Or simply looking unlikable to me

You know, father, it is always safer
Always more fun and more comfortable
Always bossier, and certainly more profitable
To give a stranger guy a ticket, a handsome fine
Than to catch an evil devil , an armed robber
A cold-blooded murderer, a violent drug addict
Even a drunkard costs me more skills
More brains, more guts, more strengths

It may be a bit too cowardly, too mean or wicked
Too ruthless or mischievous on my part
I know, but we just cannot help it, father

Politicians & Public Opinion
This distorted shadow of a monster dancing widely
Or of a colossal rain cloud above the borderline between sea and sky
Constantly changing its shape and thickness
With lightning and thunder
Ready to blow or to be blown into an unseen bubble
By the whirl beaten up by another dancing monster

Author’s Bio: Changming Yuan, author of Chansons of a Chinaman (2009) and co-author of Three Poets: Voices from the West Coast (2011), is a three-time Pushcart nominee who grew up in a remote Chinese village and published several monographs before moving to Canada. Currently Yuan teaches in Vancouver and her poetry has appeared in Barrow Street, Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline, London Magazine, Taj Mahal Review and nearly 380 other journals and anthologies in 16 countries.

Spell for preventing a man for going upside down and eating feces - The Egyptian book of the Dead

Vision of the Underworld

I
What I detest is feces, and I will not eat it
It will not fall from my belly

It will not come near my fingers
I will not touch it with my toes

I will live on loaves of white emmer
and beer of red barley

I am a bull whose throne is provided
I will eat under the sycamore

I have flown up as a swallow
I have cackled as a goose.

II
What I detest I will not eat
And I detest feces, I will not eat it

I will not approach it with my hands
I will not thread on it with my feet

I have alighted on the beautiful tree
In the middle of the valley

Men will thresh for me
and men will reap.

The Song of the Sinking Soul
Fish me from the river
in the cupped palms of women.

Place me in an earthen pot
and anoint me with turmeric.

I am a stone washed in water.

The Song of the Mortal Man
Bury my spirit in the village of the rich
watch it rise towards the heavens
a dead man turned into mist

a poor man reborn as a mealy worm
and eaten by a chicken

Meditation #40 The Meaning of this Moment
Kiss me....just once/I do... kiss you/and the meaning of this moment lies/in the show shops and slop shops and sweaters of morbid chattel slavery/where labour, sex and breeding are exchanged
for camels, trucks and guns/bought and sold/traded and inherited, branded and bred/the sweater

and the sweater’s sweater and a third and a forth and a fifth draw their profit/more hands than are wanted kept idle in case of a press of work/ a day and a half without breaking fast/the starved-out
and sweated-out tailor’s last resort/like the penny-a-liners fagging away for hours on end at coroners’

courts/ to receive the Irishman’s fortune – nothing at all/waiting for the windfall/the terrible murder
rejoicing their hearts/Don’t get me started/the thimble-riggers with their tricks of legerdemain/
the reports of shipwrecked dead-men robbed of their sodden purses/the curses of men doomed

to suffer on the scaffold waiting for the drop to fell/swept off by typhus or scarlatina/through God’s heavy judgement and visitation/in the stifling undrained hovel with the fever stricken slop worker/beggared and broken in the slack season/the ticketed garments and partakers of sin/

the guillotined victims skins tanned into breeches/I beseech you...kiss me...just once/we will open
our common shop/work and live together in the sweater’s den/sell for the lowest price /keep up
the dress of gentlemen/permit me that wayward vice/Again...kiss me/we will soon depart/the darkness

Author’s Bio: Gerard Beirne, born in Ireland, is a Canadian citizen. He received an MFA in Creative Writing from Eastern Washington University. He is a past recipient of The Sunday Tribune/Hennessy New Irish Writer of the Year award. He was appointed Writer-in-Residence at the University of New Brunswick 2008-2009.

His collection of poetry Digging My Own Grave was published by Dedalus Press, Dublin. An earlier version won second place in the Patrick Kavanagh Poetry Award. His collection Games of Chance: A Gambler’s Manual is forthcoming form Oberon this Fall (2011).

His novel The Eskimo in the Net (Marion Boyars Publishers, London, 2003) was shortlisted for the prestigious Kerry Group Irish Fiction Award 2004 for the best book of Irish fiction and was selected by the Literary Editor of the Daily Express (England) as his book of the year “scandalously ignored by the Man Booker judges...”. His most recent novel Turtle was published by Oberon Press, 2009.

His short story Sightings of Bono was adapted into a short film featuring Bono (U2) by Parallel Productions, Ireland in 2001 and released on DVD in 2004.

Artist's Bio: Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 15 year old photographer and artist who has won contests with National Geographic, The Woodland Trust, The World Photography Organisation, Winstons Wish, Papworth Trust, Mencap, Big Issue, Wrexham science, Fennel and Fern and Nature's Best Photography. She has had her photographs published in exhibitions and magazines across the world including the Guardian, RSPB Birds, RSPB Bird Life, Dot Dot Dash, Alabama Coast, Alabama Seaport and NG Kids Magazine (the most popular kids magazine in the world).

She was also the only person from the UK to have her work displayed in the National Geographic and Airbus run See The Bigger Picture global exhibition tour with the United Nations International Year Of Biodiversity 2010. Only visual artist published in the Taj Mahal Review June 2011. Youngest artist to be displayed in Charnwood Art's Vision 09 Exhibition and New Mill's Artlounge Dark Colours Exhibition. Website: www.eleanorleonnebennett.zenfolio.comwww.eleanorleonnebennett.zenfolio.com.

Burning Until Dawn
Disillusioned in myself:
Life smolders up one day at a time in the flares of denial. Understood and swallowed in the flames without a blink from knowing eyes. Suddenly the emptiness and the stark grey simplicity of the knowledge arrive. Living in a house eroding, that desires I am not here.
Illicit thoughts subdued in a burning sunrise.

Morning
Life mirrors a morning dewdrop, glistening, a small universe perilously cloaked on a forgotten branch evaporating into nothingness.

Hotel City Window
Early morning awakening,
when the day has a fresh grayness,
drifting across the sky.

A woman drinks from a fountain,
head sideways intersecting the flow,
sunlight washes her cheek.

Sitting at the window,
alert vengeance against the treachery
of memories, false hopes and yearnings.

Author’s Bio: The Orlando Sentinel, Lake Healthy Living and Mature Lifestyles Magazines have all described Carl Scharwath as the "running poet." His interests being a father, competitive running, sprint triathlons and taekwondo (he's a 2nd degree black belt).

His work appears all over the world in publications such as Paper Wasp (Australia), Structo (The UK), Taj Mahal Review (India), Diogen Pro Kultura (Bosnia), and Abandoned Towers. He was also recently awarded “Best in Issue” in Haiku Reality Magazine. His first short story was published last July in the Birmingham Arts Journal. His favorite authors are Hermann Hesse and Edith Wharton.

Sri Aurobindo considered himself firstly to be a poet. His profound and spiritual outpourings of poetic inspiration chart a new course for Man, heralding the emergence of a new species of Superman. His verses describe beautifully, with an aroma of the spirituality of India, the appearance of Man on earth and the stages of evolution. He believes that man's travails, sufferings and death have a purpose in the scheme of evolution of human consciousness. Man is a transitional being constantly driven by an impulse to exceed himself and evolve towards divine consciousness, harmony and joy.

Sri Aurobindo, the most radical spiritual poet, points out rich potentialities of Man beyond normal imaginations. The poet prophetically describes the transcendence of man as the consummation of earthly evolution and the emergence of a supramental race on earth. In this illuminating doctoral thesis, the author brings out Sri Aurobindo's concept of Man in his poetry.

On ‘Savithri'

Though Malayalam poets had been prolific, there was nothing in Malayalam poetry that could measure up to the greatness of ‘Savithri,' Sri Aurobindo's epic poem, Ms. P. Valsala said. Sri Aurobindo's poetry, “was unmatched in sublimity of thought.” was comparable to the best in English literature.

Title: Concept Of Man In Sri Aurobindo's Poetry

Author: Jitendra Sharma

Publisher: Anmol Publications Pvt. Ltd., New Delhi

ISBN: 978-81-261-4932-2

Pages: 182

Price: Rs. 900

Available: Anmol Publications Pvt. Ltd.

Author’s Bio: Dr. Jitendra Sharma graduated from the Sri Aurobindo International Centre of Education, Pondicherry. As a student, he had the privilege of corresponding regularly with the Mother of Sri Aurobindo Ashram. He obtained the Master's Degree in French from Karnatak University Dharwar and had M.Phil. in French from the Central Institute of English and Foreign Languages, Hyderabad. For one year, he studied in the Stendhal University of Grenoble in France. He has contributed numerous articles to various journals and participated in more than 80 national/international Seminars, Workshops and Conferences. He heads the Department of French at St. Joseph's College, Devagiri, Calicut (Kerala) where he tries to implement Sri Aurobindo's education methodology in his teaching profession.